Season 1, Episode 0
Prologue
36 hours into my water fast. Window seat, sun-kissed and hurtling across space in a straight line towards Namma Bengaluru. Clear-headed, lowered resting heart rate, comfortably reclined in the plush business-class seats. Fancy much?
Imbecilic child next to me hammering the screen with both his tiny fists. His mum, Chanel’s finest oozing out of her every pore, looks on at him lovingly — her precocious little angel.
“Ha — isn’t he a little devil”, I say. Passive-aggressively of course.
“I know, he’s got so much energy! Don’t you cutiepie?”.
Cutiepie is blowing perfectly spherical snot bubbles now. Like those bubble-gun things, except misty green. Mommy wipes his face, smile intact, and lets him continue his stress test of Emirates’ in-flight infotainment unit.
I excuse myself to go for a piss. These water fasts means I take loo breaks every hour. But then again, it’s a day closer to my 10% body-fat target. You win some, you lose some. Delighted to point out that shuffling out of the window seats into the aisle remains a demeaning experience, even in business class.
Time flies. Before we know it, we are taxiing on the Kempegowda tarmac.
“One and a half saar, it’s very far. Won’t happen return trip for me.” The universal Automan’s sales pitch. I let him get away with it though. It’s back-breaking work.
“Okay banni…”
“Great saar.”
Bright blue church pews double up as seats in this fine automobile. Like sitting on a park bench where two tectonic plates meet. The cushioning is threadbare. My bony arse feels every one of Bangalore’s innumerable potholes along our one-hour trip. Automan bouncing on his seat like it’s a pogo-stick, me gyrating on the church pew like I am on a sybian.
“Where coming from, saar?”
“Dublin…Ireland.”
“Oh, UK na saar? Queen saar?”
No, and no. But leave it. Experience has taught me to only pick winnable fights.
“Yes. Close to Queen.” Not quite 6-feet-under.
“Very good saar. Family in Bangalore saar?”
“Yes — here since the ‘90s.”
“Very good saar, I am from Chamrajpet saar. Marriage aaita saar?”
Two minutes in and I’ve to get defensive.
“Not yet…looking to find someone.”
“Oh, good luck saar. These days girls very difficult. Find someone simple. What caste saar?”
I used to think of myself as quite a direct guy. But that’s based on my closeted Irish standards. Out here, everyone cuts to the chase. Saves everyone time. Why bother with perceived niceties?
“Maratha…”, I muster wishing he’d see through the lukewarm response.
“Very good, saar. Upper caste aaramse you’ll get. Very fair girls.”
Melanin, or the lack of it, dictates everything here. Your diet, your mate, your job, your house, your self-worth.
“Saar, you speak Kannada or Marathi?”
“Both, but mainly English…”
“Then very easy saar, don’t worry.”
I lean back on the church pew; arms spread across the seat. Like I used to as a nubile, young fella back in the day. Let the smells and sounds of my city overpower me. The honking, the pandemonium, the deafening two-stroke lawn-mower engine. It was great to be back.
Automan pulled into stop at a red light, a nanosecond after it turned green. Turned off the engine, put his feet on the handle, lit a beedi and watched the clock count down from a whopping 180 seconds. Cars, vans, trucks, bikes, cycles all around us. A thriving, heaving sea of metal, diesel, noise, and humanity. I didn’t know I missed this. I absentmindedly stared at a feral cow crossing the street, its enormous udders swaying, people patting its back. It proceeded to drop a gigantic green turd-cake on the road. And nobody batted an eyelid. Life just…carried on.
“My daughter no marry saar. She’s already too old, will be difficult to find for her.”
“Oh is it…how old is she?”
“26 saar. Getting very late. I try everywhere, no boys only. Everyone wants working girl.”
I was 35. Damn. I had no chance.
“I don’t mind any girl — working or not working….”
“No no no no saar, can’t give to you. Different caste alva saar.”
I didn’t have the energy to correct Automan that I wasn’t interested in marrying his daughter. Not until I see her at least. But his usage of the word “give” made me wince.
“Which caste are you looking to get your daughter married into?”
“Local caste saar. Kannada-speaking. Anyone is fine in our caste saar.”
“What about some other guy that your daughter likes?”
“No problem saar. If no Muslim, we are okay saar.”
So desperate dad wants to give his ancient 26-year-old daughter to anyone that she likes if it’s not a Muslim. Why not?
“Why not?”
“Cultural clash saar, very different peoples. Violent saar.”
Part-time Automan, full-time Anthropologist.
“What age do you think is too old to get married?”, I ask, fervently praying I am not older than Automan’s filters.
“26–27 max, after that no babies.”
“Okay. And what about for men?”
“Saar, we are ready anytime.” Looking at me in the rear-view mirror, slapping his thigh and laughing deliriously.
Was Chamrajpet’s Jordan Peterson onto something though? Didn’t I think I was too old? Wasn’t I looking for someone who’d make a great wife and a better mother? Didn’t I also want someone who’d be a snug cultural fit?
Automan voices his truths while I stifle mine, lest they become real. This is a man who knows exactly what he wants. There’s something to be said for that — I am just not sure what.
The smell of carbs welcomes me home.
The unmistakable sizzle of butter on the underside of a dosa. Mom is already banging them out by the dozen. Cooking for your firstborn never seems like a chore, eh? I wish I could give this much unconditional care to somebody, some day.
She’s a petite, energetic, vociferous, caring lady. Steadfast, principled but not immune to bouts of mild bigotry. Acing a double-barrelled MA (French) and MBA (Economics), getting hitched to my dad at the ripe, old age of 29 and raising two healthy, functional, psychologically balanced kids. She is, to me, the archetypal modern Indian woman. #WifeMaterial.
“Your hair looks like a beggar’s. Get it cut.”
Indians and cutting to the chase.
“Mom, it’s fine — I want to grow it out.”
“If you grow it out, I’ll throw you out. Get it cut, look decent, you’ve to meet so many girls. You are middle-aged as it is…”
“Girls like the salt-and-pepper look these days, ma.”
“Yeah, I don’t like such girls.”
Yep. She doesn’t.
Dad, surveying me above his unfurled newspaper, chips in.
“Are you still keeping up with the carnivore diet?”
“Yeah. But I also fast now.”
“Fast?”
“Yeah, I don’t eat for days sometimes.”
I can only see the back of my mom’s head when I said that, but I am 99% sure she’s scowling.
“And that’s good for you?”
“Yup. Eating is much more dangerous than not eating. You should try it out.”
“Hmmm. Send me some videos on this.”
Ever the skeptic. Dad’s always been a keen reader, a sharp talker, a staunch ally, and an excellent friend. Mr Dependable. And the first person I turn to whenever trouble befalls me. Which is often.
We devour the dosas, sitting at the same dining table we’ve sat on for decades. Gossiping, laughing, talking. And then, the inevitable question comes up.
Mom ventures first.
“We’ve looked at so many girls. Relatives, friends, matrimonial agents, sites. We can’t find anyone suitable yet…what type do you want?”
Like I was buying an iPhone.
“Mom…it’s hard to paint a picture exactly. Most of the girls I am attracted to, don’t want me. Most that are attracted to me, I don’t want…”
“Yeah — but like, what characteristics are we supposed to search for? You want a book reader, na? And someone qualified? And who speaks Kannada?”
Check. Check. Check.
Whom did I want? Short version: a woman with a big brain, a bigger heart, and an even bigger derriere. Long version: …
“Mom. As far as I can tell, three things. Physical attraction. Intellectual compatibility. Loving family.”
“What is this intellectual compatibility? Your dad and I had no intellectual compatibility.”
Dad nods along.
“I just mean that we watch the same shows, read the same books…”.
“You can just tell her what to watch and read.”
Why didn’t I think of that?
“Yeah, but I don’t want her to be obsessed with low-brow nonsense. Like Reality TV or wanting a pre-wedding shoot or talking in Hinglish or Kinglish or whatever.”
“What rubbish. You are obsessed with Bollywood too.”
I am. More on this later.
“You forced us to watch Sanjay Dutt movies in Gandhi class at Swagath theatre on a Wednesday. And you are talking about intellectual compatibility?”
“Mom, that was when I was 16. People change, they mature…and I did that ironically. I write about Bollywood as an intellectual exercise, I love the razzmatazz, but I take it with a pinch of salt. I just mean I want someone with some depth.”
“Compatibility, depth…what rubbish. If she had any depth, why would she marry you?”
Dad chimes in with an excellent point.
“Anyway, we have six biodatas shortlisted. Meet them, talk about whatever you need to, and just pick one.”
Biodata sounds like a medical profile. It’s essentially a match’s CV: her name, height, weight, skin tone, caste, relatives’ maiden names, job, salary, an “about me” (which no one, including the writer, ever reads), a couple of photos in varying outfits (a “traditional”, a “modern”, a “PG-13 but hot”), birthday, birthdate, birthtime (for horoscope matching reasons), three sentences on the type of man she’s after, and all relevant personal and professional contact numbers, social media handles and I kid you not, a LinkedIn profile.
My parents had scoured through thousands of these in the last few years. They had filtered out the chaff and presented me with six. They’d be on-board if I married any of them.
Arranged marriage is like Tinder if its algorithm was powered by your mom. Carefully handpicked, rigorously researched, and whittled down to the chosen few. Like a buffet with your favourite starters. Of which you pick one. And eat it for all eternity.
“Fine, I’ll meet them. That’s why I am here anyway.”
As opposed to lying semi-horizontally in my LazyBoy guiding Arsenal to Champions League glory on FIFA back home.
